Sour Sofkee March, 2020
“Bat Twit Crazy!”
“In my first year of public service and as the chief executive, I have found the government of Oklahoma too big. The greatest challenge before us today is big government bureaucracy. Therefore, the tribes need to pay the state more money!” King Twit boldly declared.
Yahola leaned over to me and in a loud whisper stated, “That is complete and utter ‘bull twit!’” “Ennit? I know,” I told Yahola, “but try to keep it down will ya?”
The occasion was the Oklahoma Governor’s annual State of the State address. We were tightly squeezed into a packed House chamber in the State Capitol. Tribal leaders were in attendance. Some of them appeared to be reaching for their war clubs.
“The governor has gone ‘bat twit’ crazy,” Yahola continued. He laughed derisively and added, “On the one hand, King Twit says the government is too big. Then in the next breath, he wants to shake down the tribes so as to make big government even bigger. I’m not sure if this guy is Bevis or Butthead.”
I had to cover my mouth with both hands to reign in an outburst of laughter. My mind conjured up a mental image of King Twit’s face on the head of Butthead and
stammering, “Uh huh huh…Top Ten State…huh huh huh.”
“We are moving in the direction that we all want to go: to become a Top Ten state,” King Twit announced to a house divided. His timing could not have been more exquisite. Was he reading my mind?
“What is a Top Ten State, and how will we know when we’ve gotten there?” King Twit asked rhetorically. “The answer is as easy as it is obvious: You will know when I tell you.”
“Heyluh! This guy is a real ‘twit head’!” Yahola intoned. “His mantra is ‘Make Oklahoma a Top Ten State’ but he hasn’t the foggiest idea what that means, nor has he articulated any quantifiable metrics to document progress.” Yahola was correct. However, I was still chuckling at “twit head.”
We returned our attention to the Governor. “In order for Oklahoma to become a Top Ten state, it is imperative that the tribes start paying their fair share,” King Twit averred.
“Oh my God! What a ‘dip twit!’” Yahola was fit to be tied. “Fair deal? Does the governor not know that Oklahoma agreed to the terms of the compact? If they didn’t like the deal, they shouldn’t have signed off!”
I smiled wryly, leaned over to Yahola and said, “Yes, I know. It is complete ‘horse twit!’”. Yahola guffawed and slapped his knee. “We best be quiet, or we’ll be on the Governor’s ‘twit list’ ” joked Yahola. “Probably,” I said “But that would be real ‘twitty’ of him!”
Yahola and I were snickering like two junior high school boys making fun of their teacher. “I really don’t give a ‘twit’ anyway,” Yahola somehow managed to say through peals of laughter. “Absolutely,” I added. “Besides it was the governor who created this ‘twit storm’ in the first place.”
Yahola and I were doubled over with laughter. We couldn’t look at each other for fear of howling with gleeful ha-ha’s. Both of us were bent over in our seats with our heads between our knees. All the better to hide from the searching eyes of the audience trying to locate the perpetuators of such derisive laughter, however well-deserved.
Summoning vast reserves of willpower, we finally managed to stop our giggling and porcine snorts of laughter. Wiping the juvenile grins from our faces, we straightened up in our chairs. Our attention returned to the governor who was still bloviating about fairness.
“And I can state categorically, that, even as a proud Cherokee, the tribes should pay more,” King Twit asserted. Yahola and I locked eyes. We desperately tried to hold back the mounting chthonic pressure of a geyser of laughter. But the effort was in vain.
“Proud Cherokee! Aaaay!” we said in unison. We then erupted into a Mt. Vesuvius explosion of gleeful and sarcastic laughter. Twit happens!